• “Let’s go Fishing…”

… he said, it’ll be fun he said…

After much beckoning that later turned into wreckoning of your apartment, Gramps Lumpy Franks dragged your arse into a fishing trip through ‘persuasion’ (knocking you out-cold via golf club) and ‘chauffeuring’ (dragging your floppy mass of flesh into the inconspicuous white van).

Cool, but the issue is that it’s just the pool of your Gramp’s retirement home.

“Can’t park your boat here” an unfortunate worker babbled. Gramps Lumpy Franks threw a pissy-hissy fit when his beckoning didn’t land… on the double he brought another wreckoning… Marvel type crap, now bare in his underwear, arms akimbo wielding squids in each hand he proclaimed;

I, Crangler, the Squid-Strangler oughta whoop sum acceptance up ya tukus’!

’Ah, so that explains what happened to my pet Squilliam a month ago…’ you thought, but were interrupted by the SWAT team crashing through the fences ‘i shouldn’t of dozed off… things just got cattywampus outa nowhere…’ you dozed of AGAIN-

“RAAAGGHHH” and so Crangler/your wacko gramps started shooting ink at the SWAT assault team… you dived under a table in order to avoid a grenade thrown from somewhere.

“HELP ME OUT THERE, SONNY BOY!” Crangler shouted at you as he swung the squids around like nunchucks, ink spraying every which way.